His To Claim

Chapter 7: Beneath the Blood Moon

His POV — RYAN

The fire was still burning low in the hearth when we made it back to the cabin.

Ash clung to her skin. Blood—not hers—dried on her neck and collarbone. Her hair was tangled and wild, her body tired but radiant, pulsing with power. And yet, when she turned to look at me in the orange flicker of firelight…

She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I locked the door behind us—not because I thought anyone would come. They wouldn’t. Not after what we’d done. But because the rest of the world didn’t deserve to see her like this.

Only I did.

She stood in the middle of the room, half-shadowed, watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes. I crossed to her slowly, letting the silence stretch between us, full of weight and want.

I didn’t reach for her right away.

I needed her to know—this wasn’t about claiming or instinct or proving anything.

This was just us.

“You saved yourself,” I whispered.

Her lips trembled, and I saw the flicker of something behind her eyes. Guilt. Pain. Relief.

I cupped her face in both hands, leaned in until our foreheads touched.

“And you saved me, too.”

She exhaled slowly, a breath I knew she’d been holding for too long. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered.

“Do what?”

“Be soft. Be… safe.”

I pulled her close. “Then let me show you.”

I undressed her like she was breakable. Not because she was, but because no one ever had.

Her shirt slipped from her shoulders, revealing skin that carried both battle and beauty. Scars. Marks. Memories of pain she didn’t need to hide anymore.

When I leaned down to kiss her shoulder, she flinched.

Only a little. Just enough to make my chest ache.

I kissed it again. Slower this time. Then her collarbone. Her throat. The curve between her breasts.

Each kiss wasn’t just a touch—it was a promise. I saw every mark. I honored every one.

By the time she was naked in front of me, she wasn’t trembling. She was glowing.

And then she undressed me.

Her fingers grazed my chest, my abdomen, then lower. She looked up at me as she stroked me, slow and soft, watching the way my body responded to her.

She had no idea how powerful she was.

I guided her to the bed, laid her down like she was holy.

Then I got on my knees.

I kissed the inside of her thighs, worshipped her with my tongue, slow and patient. She gasped, gripping the sheets, legs shaking. I didn’t stop. I didn’t rush.

I just loved her.

Over and over.

Until she broke apart like a whisper in the dark.

When I slid inside her, she was already so warm, so wet, that my eyes rolled back in my head. But I didn’t move. Not yet.

I looked down at her, our foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

“I want to feel every second,” she whispered.

“So do I.”

And we did.

We made love slow.

The kind of slow that hurt. That healed. That made time stop and breath catch and hearts forget how to beat.

She moved beneath me like she belonged there. Hands tangled in my hair. Legs wrapped around my waist. Her eyes locked on mine like she couldn’t look away.

Neither could I.

I touched her face while I was inside her.

Traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her mouth, the scar behind her ear. She was everything I ever wanted and didn’t know how to ask for.

When she came, it was silent—just a soft breath, a tear sliding down her cheek.

And when I followed, burying myself deep, I didn’t growl. I didn’t roar.

I just held her.

After, we lay tangled in the sheets, bodies slick with sweat, skin glowing in the soft light of the fire. The Blood Moon shone through the window—red, full, ancient.

She looked at me, head resting on my chest.

“You’re not afraid of me?” she asked.

I smiled, brushing her hair back. “I was never afraid of you. I was afraid of losing you.”

Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry this time.

She just curled closer and whispered, “Then don’t.”

And I wouldn’t.

Not now.

Not ever.